


The Doctor Dances Darkly

by loveslashangst



Series: The Eleven!Amy KinkMeme Chronicles - Dark Side [1]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Eleventh Doctor Era, F/M, Kink Meme, Non Consensual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-01
Updated: 2010-07-01
Packaged: 2017-10-10 08:26:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/97671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveslashangst/pseuds/loveslashangst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First posted on the "Eleven-Era Kink Meme" to the <a href="http://http//community.livejournal.com/eleventy_kink/365.html?thread=164973#t164973">prompt</a>  "Amy's dithering between Rory and the Doctor, and the Doctor is getting bored with the game she's playing. So he arranges for Rory to have an "accident". Amy needs a lot of comforting..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Doctor Dances Darkly

**Author's Note:**

> This is as dark as I've ever gotten in a story, and I've been writing Captain John Hart smut for two years and counting.
> 
> It frightens me a bit how easy it was for me to turn Eleven's absent-minded-yet-curmudgeonly sweetness into an unrepentant sexual sadist with sociopathic tendencies. If you want Dark!Doctor, this is your fic. If you want to keep Eleven sweet and goofy, run far far away.

The Doctor's been travelling a long time. He's had his share of dirty shags, illicit meetings, even fucked a few people over. (And wasn't it fun to watch the wounded woobie look on Jack's face during his Tenth regeneration? Some things never get old.)

He's always wanted to be ginger. Eleven fucking regenerations and not even a hint of strawberry blonde. The universe has a sick sense of irony. So lately, he's taken to collecting gingers as Companions with the theory that if you can't be one, fuck one. (Reminds him of the good old days with Vislor Turlough.) Though, the last ginger he had in the TARDIS was as far from shaggable as possible. (Hard to have passionate thoughts about a woman whose idea of sterling commentary is "Whoof!")

However, this new bit of ginger cheesecake makes him want to bend her in half and see how many pitches he can make her scream in. Amy flirts outrageously. Dresses provocatively. Claims to be a "kiss-o-gram". Not surprising, as every stripper he's ever met is a "dancer", and every porn star an "actress". So he knows it's just a matter of time until she decides to find out what he's got in his trousers.

Problem is, an eminently shaggable girl like Amy tends to come with a Complication.

He learnt far too much from Rose about Complications. In his experience, they usually come in the form of something smallish, male, whiny, human, and utterly useless.

Rose called hers "Mickey", and it was all the Doctor could do to arrange the ditching of that pointless waste of carbon in the alternate universe so he and Rose could get on with christening every surface in the TARDIS. (And even inventing a few.)

Amy's Complication is called "Rory", and is rather taller and somewhat less attractive than she deserves, though he does get points for not being so complete an idiot as Mickey or Rickey or whatever that moron called himself.

Rory is, however, still in the way of the Doctor having the kind of sex that make pornos look like nursery rhymes. Until Rory, things had been going smoothly. Amy'd even snogged the Doctor a good one, giving him the perfect chance to play the virtuous Time Lord and return them back to her present, where he could get on with the business of offing her Complication (he believes they're stilled called "fiancé") once and for all. The Venice trip damn near accomplished the mission. Then he had the boy good and dead thanks to a certain Dream Lord. Now the two young lovers are back to shiny and happy and damn obnoxious.

So what's a very patient Time Lord to do?

Home again, home again, jiggity jig.

As they step from the TARDIS, Amy's all miniskirts and flushed cheeks and the blush of youth. She grins at the Doctor, arm and arm with her Complication, as though it's perfectly natural to run away with a time-travelling madman one minute and then return home to domesticity the next.

Check that: if she goes Domestic, he'll kill them both. (Whether to shag her before or after? Decisions, decisions.)

The TARDIS votes for both.

Leadworth is out in the middle of nowhere. No, check that, not nowhere. The Middle of Nowhere is actually a lovely picnic spot due HyperNorth of Vega, frequented most often by lovers of every species looking for a secluded spot for a shag. The Doctor's been known to camp out (with popcorn) just to watch the poor yokels come in and find the place more crowded than Wembley Stadium when some hair band is playing. Fun to call in the Shadow Proclamation too, if only to watch rhino-faced cops break up the fun one steamed-glass portal at a time.

Back to killing Rory. Yes. As the Doctor watches Amy's arse, pleasingly (and barely) covered with denim, stride down the lane in front of him, he contemplates the Complication. Shy, yet perceptive. Loyal, yet with just a tinge of Whinging. He'd make a half-decent man, were he given the chance. (Which, of course, he won't be.)

The Doctor subtly sets his sonic screwdriver to "Come and Get It" (aka setting 6397-apple-backslash), which should be like chumming the water for his favourite kind of Menace to Humanity.

They're known as the "Cythraul" (relation to the Welsh word completely coincidental) and shouldn't actually be invading for another five hundred years or so, but what's a half millennium in the grand scheme of things?

Even in a village as small as Leadworth, when the Doctor's guests arrive, there's a lot of running and screaming as creatures with talons, teeth, and four-metre wingspans descend and start the process of herding and devouring the locals. Poor Jeff's gran isn't fast enough. Neither is a fat tourist couple, both of whom are neatly decapitated in one blow. The Doctor shouts for Amy and the Complication to follow him, then herds them handily into a dead end.

He's had nine hundred years to practice his look of "horrified confusion".

So he turns to the Cythraul, speaks to it in its own language, taking care not to use any words the TARDIS might accidentally translate. Once it understands his desired course of action, it grins its approval and charges him, knocking him out of the way.

And then who should rally to Amy's defence? Why, her erstwhile Complication, of course.

In his final moments on earth, Rory's all shouting and unkempt blond hair and stupidity.

The Cythraul makes short work of him, even adding an artful splash of blood and gore. Nothing like a good disembowelling to make a girl desperate for comfort. The Doctor flashes his sonic (which is of course set to a harmless frequency). The Cythraul takes his meal to go. Amy's left sobbing and hysterical. Then the fun really begins.

Once the flock has eaten their fill, they lose interest. Best thing about the Cythraul -- they really do have short attention spans. The resulting chaos gives the Doctor the perfect excuse to scoop Amy into his arms and make a mad and "heroic" dash back to the TARDIS. A bit of fiddling and some showy pyrotechnics by the TARDIS, the Cythraul take off, and he can get back to the delicious prospect of getting into Amy's knickers.

She huddles in the jumpseat, sobbing and shaking. The dull stare is never good for romance, but the Doctor's been about this kind of thing for longer than humans have been speaking English, so he's not bothered.

He sets the TARDIS to go somewhere that's actually secluded. Pulls the lever. Leaves the console.

He kneels at Amy's feet. Brushes that lovely ginger hair out of her eyes. Gives her his best look of loving sympathy. (And if that doesn't do it, there are a few settings on his sonic screwdriver that are better than Roofies.)

She looks at him. Her face crumples into hopeless tears. She falls into his arms, sobbing. He holds her. Croons to her. Comforts her like any true friend should.

And then he lets each caress linger a little. Suggest a little more. He unwinds her scarf. Sets it aside. Kisses her forehead chastely.

And to his utter delight, she kisses him first. It's the wordless kiss of someone whose whole world has come apart. Someone with no home. No family. Nothing to return to.

No Complications.

He might've spent many more minutes undressing her fully, which he will do in time, but as it is he mostly wants to claim this while he can. While it's fresh.

While Amy still has streaks of Rory's blood in her hair.

He kisses her deeply. More deeply. Tastes her almost to her tonsils. She's hot. Alive. Thrumming with pain and confusion. Deliciously off balance and vulnerable.

And he's going to fuck her raw.

But first things first. He manoeuvres her so he's on top, his hips between her legs. Kisses her deeply and thoroughly. She's still leaking tears. Has to stop for the occasional sob. She tastes of salt and fresh grief. Frankly, the thought of shagging the fiancée on the cloor of the Console Room not ten minutes after the death of his rival is almost enough to get him off by itself.

His clumsiness with her knickers is intentional, as is his blush of apology. He gives her an out, claiming he has no right to do this and they should stop.

She tells him to shut it. And though her tears are leaking fresh, it's she who strips off her own panties, the unfaithful whore.

Fortunately, he's always had a soft spot for unfaithful whores. (It was half of Rose's appeal.)

He snogs Amy until he tastes blood. Thrusts possessive fingers into the hot wetness between her legs. It's too rough. Punishing. She arches into the violation of his hand. Mews and moans. Takes two fingers. Three. Four. A guilty orgasm or two and she's got most of his hand. He fists her until he can't tell whether her sobs are pleasure or pain. Withdraws his hand. Feeds her fingers sopping with her juices. She sucks hard. Greedy. Wanting -- or maybe even needing -- him to be rough with her. Perhaps she even wants it to be her fault.

He hikes her denim mini up to her waist. Drags her to him by the hips. Bends over her. Savagely kisses her. She tastes of human female and guilt, a rich and decadent appetiser.

"I didn't hurt you, did I?" he says.

She shakes her head no, though the tears give lie. "I want you to."

"This may--"

"Just do it."

He slides in roughly. She screams. He kisses her like he loves her. She wraps her legs around his hips. Tucks her heels beneath his arse. He lavishes kisses on her. Murmurs words of love he doesn't mean. Begins to rock into her. Stretches her. Harder. Deeper. Faster. She's moaning again. Crying out in time to his thrusts. Her hands are in his hair. She pulls his head down. Bites at his mouth. Sucks his tongue. Lets him swallow every cry and call and shout.

He circles his hips. Makes her come again. Fucks her too hard when she does. Orgasm. Pounding. Orgasm. Pounding. Pleasure. Pain. Pleasure. Pain. She'll never want anyone else, once he's done with her.

"Say you want it," he demands.

She's coming (or crying, who can tell?)

"Say you want it, Amy," he repeats, more harshly this time.

"Oh, God! I want it!"

He nips her neck hard. Sucks heat to the surface. "Want what?"

"Come!" Her hands are at his hips, pushing him away one minute and pulling him in the next. "In me! Oh god, DOCTOR!"

He can feel the half-grin of victory as he builds. Soon. Soon.

He pulls out. Flips her over. Pulls her to her knees. Thrusts home again. She wails. He can fuck her harder from this angle. Deeper. Make her feel it with every thrust.

He bends over her. Wends his way into her mind. She tenses. Tries to pull away. He holds her shoulders. Soothes even as he continues his conquest. He feeds her stories of his love and devotion. He's never wanted anyone like he wants her. He can't help himself. If he's rough, it's because he's never been with a human before. She's special. She's the first to capture his heart. He'll make it right with her. He's so sorry. He just wants her to feel good again. He'll do whatever it takes to make her happy.

There is no vanity like the female ego. She swallows the fairytales as greedily as her hot little cunt takes his cock. After the mental contact, she submits to the fuck. No more Complications. No more distractions. Just him. In her. Taking what's finally his.

He catches her by the throat. Hauls her half-upright. "I'm going to come in you."

"Yes!" Such a lovely, breathless sigh.

"I'm going to whitewash you. Fill you to overflowing."

He pulls her down by the throat. She founders for something to hold onto. He catches first one wrist, then the other in his free hand. Holds her arms behind her back. Thrusts faster and faster. Feels the head of his cock unfurl. Not long now. She's calling, voice hoarse because of the hand on her throat. Wanting. Still deliciously guilty. Now defiled too. Fucked by another man. And not just any man.

His cock envelops her cervix. Pumps hot come into her. Fills her until come runs in effervescent rivulets down her thighs.

The Doctor releases Amy's throat so she can scream herself hoarser.

He flips her onto her back. The physical is done. Now for the energy.

Her eyes are huge. Red from crying. Her makeup smeared. Her hair mussed. He holds her hands above her head. Presses her knees wide to bare her abused cunt. Lines himself up. Thrusts deep.

She screams. Begs for more.

He builds them both quickly. Lets the energy go. Lets his body go. Lets everything go. Comes in an explosion of light and passion and possession.

_Mine, Amy. You're mine._

And when he comes back to himself, coalescing back into this fleshy, bipedal body, she's looking up at him with wonder.

"I'm sorry," he says. "That I lost him."

The evil in that grin makes him want to fuck her again. "I'm not."


End file.
